Blythe by Nature
by ruby gillis
Summary: Set in 1936, four years after the events of Blythe by Name. The latest generation of Blythes at Ingleside are growing up, but not without their share of trials and joys.  Please note: the old version of Blythe by Nature will become a third sequel.
1. Cast of Characters

CAST OF CHARACTERS

**At Ingleside: **

_Dr. and Mrs. Gilbert Blythe_

_Their son, Jem, and his wife, Faith. _

_Their children: Walter, Cameron, Sally and Helen Blythe_

**At Caraway House: **

_Shirley and Irene Blythe_

**At the Glen St. Mary manse: **

_Rev. and Mrs. John Knox Meredith_

_Their daughter, Una Meredith_

**In ****Toronto****: **

_Kenneth and Rilla Ford_

_Their children: Gilbert, Selwyn and Amy Ford. _

**In ****St. John****, ****New Brunswick****: **

_Jerry and __Nan__ Meredith _

_Their children: Claire and Avery Meredith _

**In ****Vancouver****: **

_Carl and Diana Meredith _

**In ****Boston**** and Grafton: **

_Paul and Elizabeth Grayson Irving_

_Their children: Harry, Bess and Arthur Golden _

**At Green Gables: **

_Davy and Millie Keith_

_Their son, David Keith, and his wife, Martha_

_Their children: Denny, Silas and Doris Keith _

**At Orchard Slope: **

_Fred and Evelyn Wright_

_Their children: Lucy and Rachel Wright _


	2. Another Summer Ends

On the last night of August, certain select families in Glen St. Mary and the Four Winds District were invited to a performance in Rainbow Valley. Folding chairs had been set up along a grassy swell, facing a pair of old red velvet drapes strung along heavy twine between two slender birch trees. They had erstwhile hung in the Ingleside parlour, and Faith Meredith still destined them for her rag bag. But tonight they would do as a stage-curtain. The drapes parted—a sheaf of red curls stuck out—a shade of red entirely from the stately crimson drapes. "Artie," hissed a voice, and Arthur Golden lifted his violin to his shoulder and began the overture.

The play was _A_ _Midsummer Night's Dream_ and it was put on by the Blythe, Ford and Meredith children and their friends. The curtain went up, and Walt Blythe appeared as Theseus, with a lovely Bess Golden on his arm as Hippolyta. These were not their only roles; Bess would also be Titania, and Walter was to be Quince and Mustard-seed. Only Helen Blythe alone had been allowed one role, on account of her shyness. She was two be the fairy Pease-blossom, with just two lines.

The play progressed. Harry Golden as Lysander quarreled convincingly with Gilbert Ford as Demetrius for love of Sally Blythe, who was Hermia to Claire Meredith's Helena. Claire muddled her part, forgetting that she was supposed to be in love with Gilly and simpering whenever tall, broad-shouldered Lysander appeared on the scene. The littlest Ford cousins, Amy and Selwyn, flitted hither and thither as needed to fill the lesser roles, and Eddie Douglas made a braying, ridiculous Bottom—nobody had suspected his talent when Helen had asked him to join in to make up the requisite number of players. His mother was at once very proud and a little deflated. For if it hadn't been for Cam Blythe, Eddie _might_ have stolen the show.

Cam was rather tame as Egeus, but he shone as Puck. It was a part made for him, full of passion and mischief. His black hair glinted, his green eyes fairly twinkled as he faced the audience and made amends with the shadows that had watched the action steadily from beneath a darkening sky. By the time the final bow had been taken the fireflies were winking in the green gloom between the trees.

The children changed from their costumes, and mingled with their adults for a while round the bonfire Uncles Shirley and Bruce had kindled up. The grownups were full of praise for the performance, and for a while the two factions became one, laughing, singing group of people. But as the music died down, and the fire melted into ash, the children slipped away, in twos and threes, into the darkness, for one last Rainbow Valley ramble before their summer was ended.

"It _has_ been a good summer," said Sally Blythe, linking arms with Bess on one side and Claire on the other. "It has been such a nice summer that I shan't spoil it by regretting that it's over. Tonight there's a chill in the air—it gives me a little, bittersweet pang in my heart. 'The year is dying-let him die!'"

"Oh, Sally!" cried Claire, tossing her long brown hair over her shoulder. "Honestly, the things you say, sometimes! What a perfectly morbid, ugly thought."

"It's not Sally's thought at all, but Lord Tennyson's, and it's a lovely one, I think," said Bess Golden, with a wisdom far beyond her sixteen years. "Beautiful things aren't always pretty, Claire. Oh, I love that poem, Sal..." And Bess repeated it, word for word, in her thrilling voice.

Bess had a voice that made words live—or perhaps it was that her face, along with her voice, told that the speaker 'well those passions read.' Bess seemed to feel things more than most—she often trembled as she spoke some grave pronouncement, be it merely a sad story recounted to her second- or third-hand. When Bess was joyful her eyes beamed and her skin glowed—when Bess laughed, it was the purest sound in the world.

The three girls had reached the brook by the time that Bess had finished her recitation, and they took their seats side-by-side on the mossy bank. Bess hugged her knees. She was still wearing the gossamer wings that her mother had made her for her part as the fairy queen. Someone happening through the valley just then, who had not been privy to the night's revels, would have stopped suddenly, sure he had stumbled into Tir na Nog.

"Tonight marks an epoch in my life, as your Grandmother would say, girls." Bess laid her cheek against her knee, pensively, but her contentedness was evident in her tone. "I shall always remember this night, August 31, 1936, as the day when I made my debut—not at one of those fusty cotillions back home—but upon the stage. It is something I have dreamt of ever since I was a little girl. To think that those small grassy steps might lead to something great—to the Globe Theatre—to Carnegie Hall—to the sawdusted floor of a movie set. I have proved to myself tonight something that I was never quite sure of—I _can_ act—and now that I know I can, I shall do it, or keep trying to do it, my whole life."

"You _will_ do it," Sally said, certainly and lovingly. "And when you are famous, Bess, we shall say that we knew you first—that we shared the stage with you, even. And people will be so impressed with us."

"I wouldn't want to be even Jean Harlow if it meant kissing Eddie Douglas." Claire wrinkled her nose, delicately. "Wearing a stupid donkey's head, no less."

"Claire!" Bess sat up, full of exasperation. "It wasn't _Eddie Douglas_ that I kissed. It was Bottom the Weaver. And I wasn't myself—I was Titania, Queen of the Fairies. And at least," Bess added, pure naughtiness sparkling her grey eyes, "I'm not in danger of being 'sweet sixteen and never been kissed.'"

This was an especially pointed jab, as Claire was deathly afraid of this Fate befalling her. It was her worst fear. It was one of Sally's, too, but for other reasons. For if Claire did get kissed, sometime in the next year, then Sally would be the odd one out. More worrisomely, Sally was not sure she _wanted_ to be kissed. She could not imagine how it would feel, to have some strange boy press his lips to her own. The very idea filled her with a strange horror. Underneath that she was aware of a longing, but it was more of a longing not to be left out—not to be kept mired in girlishness while the ones she loved stepped forward into womanhood without her.

Bess smiled and put her arm around Sally's freckled shoulders. Sally staunchly loved Bess and Claire with equal passion—it would not do to favor one of her friends over the other—but it was Bess that knew Sally's secret fears and hopes. In the past few years, Claire had developed a habit of being a little dismissive with her cousin, whom she considered hopelessly immature. Claire's dream was to be pretty and popular, and be pinned by as many boys at St. John's High as her mother would allow. Sally did not sneer at her cousin's hopes, but she was conscious that she wanted more than that from life—oh, she wanted _everything_ that life could offer her!

"I didn't get onto the school paper this year," she confessed suddenly to her chums. "They hardly ever take freshies, though, so I didn't really expect they'd take me."

"Yes, you did," Bess reminded her, gently. "But there is nothing wrong with hoping for the best, Sally, even in the face of great odds."

"Still," said Sally, a little more miserably than before. For the first time since she had gotten the letter two days ago, she had confessed her disappointment out loud. But instead of making her feel better, it made her feel worse to hear it put so baldly and bluntly. Her shoulders sagged. "The truth of the matter is that I'm not going to get the experience I need to grow in my writing career. This year will be a waste. Instead of learning how to be a reporter, I'll be puttering around, writing little fairy stories that no one reads."

"I read your stories," Claire said, a little offended at being called a 'nobody.'

"So do I," said Bess. "I love your fairy stories, Sally."

Sally shifted on her mossy seat. "It's easy to write about things that are pretend, but it's hard to stick to the facts."

"Remember your 'epic' you wrote years ago! That was all real, Sally—it was really our family's history."

"I was just a baby then, though, Claire. That wasn't real writing of the kind that will ever impress an editor. I need newspaper experience for that."

Bess Golden clapped her hands on her knees. "All right," she said decidedly. "Then we'll start our own paper!"

The other girls looked at her, waiting for her to explain. Bess obliged them. "We write dozens of letters to each other during the school year—the same thing over and over, pretty much, so that everybody's in the know. If we could all be responsible for contributing one letter about what's going on in our lives, it would be much easier. Then we could circulate the paper among us. Sally, you could be news editor—and features writer—we'll all have to do double duty, like we did tonight. I'll cover the arts section—if no one else wants it. Claire, you can write the fashion update each month. Walter could write an advice column—he'd be perfect for it—we're always writing him for help, anyway. Cam could write about sports. We'll all submit our articles by a certain date, Sally can edit them, and then send them to Gilly in Toronto. Your Uncle Ken would print it up at his office if we asked him nicely and chipped in a little of our pocket money to cover costs. I'm sure he would."

"That means that Gilly would have to be editor-in-chief," Claire pointed out.

"I don't mind," said Sally quickly. There was the beginning of a swelling of excitement in her chest—the first true excitement she had felt over anything since getting that horrid letter from the Glen High _Grenadier_. "We could call our paper _The Spirit_—because it will help us all be together in spirit."

"The_ Blythe Spirit_," Bess murmured.

"But you and Harry and Artie aren't Blythes!"

"It doesn't matter. Enough of you are to make it count. Besides," Bess grinned her enchanting crooked grin, "It sounds better that way. We should all strive to be Blythe in spirit, always. Some of you are Blythe by name, but all of us should be Blythe by nature."

Sally's head was spinning with ideas. "Artie could write about music—Helen would write a gardening column if we cajole her—and Harry can write about books."

Claire laughed, and pinched Sally softly. "Harry isn't going to want to write for our paper. Don't be silly, Sal."

"Of course he would! Why wouldn't he?"

"He'll be away at Harvard, too busy chasing Radcliffe girls to mess around in our little doings. Didn't you see tonight how Harry stayed back with the grownups when we went off? He's one of them, now—he's eighteen—and we're still kids. Face _facts_, Sally. For Pete's sake!"

Sally stared at Claire for a full minute, digesting what she'd said. Could Harry—_their _Harry—be growing up and away from them? The others in the group might have always gone to Walt for advice, but Harry had been Sally's helpmeet since that sunny summer afternoon when they had met in the Middle Grafton woods four summers ago. They wrote to each other nearly every week, and sometimes between, and called each other long distance when something very important came up. Now, if Harry was grown up, and Sally was still a kid, perhaps he would not want to do that anymore. Perhaps he would not want anything to do with someone so babyish as herself.

Bess, so good at reading others' emotions, reached out and clasped Sally's hand. "Harry is a great big oaf of kid and will be when he's fifty," she said gently. "But he did promise Mother that he would be good this year, and not let his social life get in the way of his studies. He'll contribute regularly to our paper—but maybe not every month."

Sally still felt crestfallen, despite her friend's words. She felt very young and farther than ever from the silver door that led out of childhood into the world beyond. Suddenly, she thought that she would make this year—between fifteen and sixteen—the year in which she caught up to her peers—the year in which she would hurry forward on the golden road. She was fourteen now. By this time next year she would be nearly sixteen. And when she was sixteen, Sally decided, she would be grown up. She would no longer be little Sally Blythe, who wore denim chambray shorts and Keds, with her curly hair wound in pigtails, or in a coronet of braids around her head. She would be Cecilia Blythe-Cecilia Rose Blythe-and she would wear slim skirts and sweater sets, and she would even ask Aunt Irene for help in setting her hair in silky waves around her face.

The moonlit spell of the little glen by the river seemed broken, and the girls got up silently and made their way back to the bonfire. When they reached it, Harry Golden got up from where he had been sitting, brushing the grass from his knees as he stood. His eyes twinkled with good humor. Wordlessly he held his arm out to Sally, that they might go for a ramble on their own. Wordlessly, she took it. But as they walked, Sally could not help stealing glances up into Harry's square-chinned face. His dark curls flopped down into his eyes as they had always done. Could he be growing apart from her, even in this moment?

"I wish for everything to stay the same between us always," Sally thought, surprising herself with the ferventness of her desire.

"I wish I could see my name in print, like a real actress," thought Bess, wistfully, taking her place by the fire.

"I wish Harry Golden had asked _me_ to walk with him," thought Claire, thinking very bitter thoughts about some girls, who had all the luck.


	3. A Changeable Day

**Chapter Two: **

Duffel bags—a jumble of tennis rackets—sandy sneakers thrown into the trunk—damp bathing-suits fluttering from car windows like banners. The verandah was overrun with last minute good-byes. "Don't forget to write—don't forget about our paper—call us as soon as you know if you made first violin, Artie!" The elder Mrs. Dr. Blythe was hugging two of her daughters at once. The younger Mrs. Dr. Blythe was running in and out of the house, returning each time with some forgotten small item. Amy's blanket—Avery's specs—one of Gilly Fords blue socks. Each summer, after the exodus was complete, no matter how thorough she had been on the morning of departure, Faith came across a spate of left-behind things. She did not mind. They seemed like relics of the happy summer they had all spent together. It had rained in the night—the Ford twins were jumping in the puddles, drenching each other in tremendous splashes.

Uncle Jerry Meredith's station wagon was the last to pull out of the driveway. Avery was huddled against the seat, sleeping, his shock of frizzy curls hiding his face. Claire had her face pressed against the glass, and was waving with all her might and main. Sally waited until the car had passed the fir wood and then she ran down to the gate. She leaned over, her braids falling over her shoulders, just in time to see the car go 'round the bend in the road. Was Claire waving? Sally couldn't tell, but decided to believe she was. She waved, too, just in case Claire was looking back.

The lilies by the gate, Helen's lilies, were losing their summertime bloom and wore crackly hoods of brown.

Sally went slowly back up to the house. She stood in the walkway and considered it for a long moment. Ingleside was a cheerful house, with its neat white siding and yellow trim. Its neat, sloping tin roof was charming on rainy nights like last night, where they had almost had to shout to be heard over the noisy din of water. Oh, last night Ingleside had been full of friends and fun and noise and chatter.

This morning the house looked a little deflated.

It seemed to slump over and huddle against itself in defeat. _Why are people always leaving me? _Sally imagined the house saying. She felt her heart turn over in a pang of sympathy. Over a house! But then, Sally loved Ingleside as though it were really a person. Her whole life had been contained in its walls. She had been born there. It seemed incredible to her that she might one day move away—that she might even _die_ someplace else. It seemed impossible, that old story about how Grandmother Blythe had not wanted to come here, but stay in the House of Dreams. The House of Dreams was sweet, but it belonged to the Fords. It was not _home_.

It was gray and overcast, and the house seemed to be on the verge of tears. Sally threw her arms wide. If she had been able to, she would have thrown her arms _around_ the house, holding Ingleside near.

"Don't worry," she said. "They'll come back. They always do. And we'll love you hard enough in the meantime to make up the difference."

If Ingleside had been able to talk, it might have said: _Not always. Sometimes people go away forever_. But forever was a long time. And Sally was right. They would be back.

The sun split the clouds and shone down over the world. The windows sparkled, throwing rainbows every which way. Ingleside was happy again.

* * *

"Today has been a changeable day," Sally wrote in her journal before bed that night. "I was in a blue mood over everyone leaving-then I cheered myself up-then I quarreled with Cam at the supper table. He said something about Claire being silly—I didn't like that. And so I said that Cam would know silly, since he is silly himself. If I had only just said those words, they might have passed without remark. Only I used my haughtiest tone to say them. _And_ I mentioned that Bess Golden thought Cam was silly, too. Cam has always had a soft spot for Bess—he thinks that she is perfection incarnate, and he said once, 'She makes me feel as though I am my best self.'" He is always on his best behavior around Bess—he would hate to think that he has ever given her cause to think he is a bad boy—and I _knew_ he would hate it if I said she did. That's _why_ I said it. I don't know why I did—other than the fact that _I _am bad, through and through—but when anybody, even my brother, speaks out against the ones I love, I can't stand it.

Cam's eyes flashed black at me. He has not gone into a rage all summer, but he did then. And it was _such_ a rage. It was as though all the rages he didn't have were rolled into one. He picked up his fork—he brought the handle of it down, hard, in the center of his plate. It cracked clear across. Pandemonium ensued!

Grandfather exclaimed—Daddy cried out, "Gerald _Cam_eron!" Mother leapt up to save the tablecloth from the pool of gravy that was seeping through the plate. Grandmother looked at me, and her face was so, so sorry. Walt said, "For Pete's sake, Sally, why do you egg him on?"

"Egg him on?" I cried. "Cam is crazy—the men in white coats are going to have to take him away to the loony bin!" I looked to Helen for support. She was crying, of course. Her eyes were blue as the morning glories that twine around her garden posts. Helen always comes to my defence.

Only not this time.

"Cam can't help himself, Sally, but _you_ can," sobbed Helen. "Oh, Cammie—don't run off—" For Cam had gotten up from the table, red-faced. When he is in a rage, he doesn't care a whit for anybody else. But when it passes, he is always sorry. He flew through the room and out the back, to Rainbow Valley. Helen followed him.

Nobody came to my defence, and instead of being ashamed, I was angry. If I was to do what Cam had done, Mother would spank me—_yes_, she would! But Cam never gets in trouble for his rages. Perhaps he can't help them. Dad seems to think his temper is the result of some sort of chemical imbalance and that he will grow out of it as he ages. That might be true—but it isn't easy for us in the meantime, is it?

I went to my room, very pointedly skipping dessert. I thought that everyone would beg me to stay—but nobody did. I heard them downstairs, and knew they were happy, eating gingerbread and whipped cream without me. In a little while, Mother came up and sat on the bed and told me gently that I must make allowances for Cam when he is not himself. While she was talking, I was thinking of the old stories that she and Dad tell laughingly about when us kids were small. Cam was such a difficult baby—and I was so good, they 'sometimes forgot I was even there!' It does feel that way, sometimes—like nobody notices me, even when I _am_ good—which isn't as often as it should be. Still, it has been that way my whole life and I am tired of it. I rolled over and faced the wall, and when Mother laid her hand on my arm, I shook her off.

Mother said, "We will talk about it tomorrow, Sally." Her voice was tired and there was a patient but weary note in it. Oh, I hate when Mother is discouraged with me! And I _hate_ Cam sometimes!

I've just put my pen down for a moment and lain here, thinking. And I've just remembered the vow I made last night—that I would strive to lay off the childish guise of Sally in favor of the graceful airs of Cecilia Rose. Cecilia would never, never provoke her brother. And Cecilia would never hate anybody. She is understanding and serene and kind and gentle. She is all the things St. Paul writes about in his chapter on what is love.

If I am to be all these things, I must guard against doing what I did tonight. No matter how horrid Cam is, I must remember that his horridness springs from some self-critical, self-_hating_ place inside himself. I must, as Helen says, love him hard enough to make up for it. And I mustn't think mean thoughts about Helen for being such a baby at times. It is the way she is, for better or for worse, and I am proud to have a sweet sister, even when I find her exasperating.

And when it comes to Walt—Cecilia would never mind that little habit he has developed, lately, of being superior and a little pompous. He is growing up—and I am beginning to realize that growing up must be so confusing. When Walt is talking down to me, I must remember that look that comes over his face, at times—that look as though he is all of a sudden overwhelmed by life. It must be difficult to wake up one morning and find yourself a different person from the one you always knew, before—with different thoughts—more complicated thoughts—and new and far-off dreams.

Well, I'm crying, now, myself! I really am awful. I suppose nobody can like me very much at all, if I am so awful. And I am awfully displeased with myself, and that hurts, too.

I laid my pen down, again, but this time it was to have a good cry, over the fact that I was cold to mother, and made Grandmother look disappointed. And then what do you think happened, just as I was drying my eyes on the pillow-sham? There was a soft tap at the door, and Helen stuck her head in. In her hand he held a plate of gingerbread—my favourite, like Dad's. She came in and sat on my bed and we ate it together. Helen is a dearheart—she can't stand to see anybody feeling less than joyful. Her little heart aches with pain over it.

"Are you feeling better, darling?" she asked me, worriedly, as she took the plate away.

"Yes," I told her, because I was.

"Are you still mad at Cammie?"

"No," I told her. And it was _almost_ true.

But not quite—because later, I heard Cam's tread on the stairs, and I could tell from his very footfalls that he was disappointed in himself. And I thought, _good. He should be_.

I am very glad that I have a whole year in which to mould myself into Cecilia. Because sometimes it feels _good_ to be plain, flawed, _human_ Sally Blythe.


End file.
